


Sherlock: A Day In The Life Of Mycroft Holmes

by IBegToDreamAndDiffer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Food Poisoning, Guns, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IBegToDreamAndDiffer/pseuds/IBegToDreamAndDiffer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a short story detailing the day of our favourite government official, Mycroft Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock: A Day In The Life Of Mycroft Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> Ownership: Original characters are owned by Arthur Conan Doyle, these versions are owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I just get to play.

**SUNDAY**

**4:00am**

The phone’s shrill ringing pierces the cool morning air. Mycroft Holmes wakes instantly, having grown accustomed to his phone ringing at all hours, day or night. His partner groans beside him as Mycroft turns to grab his phone from the nightstand. But it’s not there and Mycroft frowns, trying to piece together the previous night in the hope of finding his BlackBerry.

‘Myc,’ Greg groans and shifts as Mycroft sits up. The shrill ringing is coming from the end of Mycroft’s large and expensive bed.

He shifts, the sheets falling from his naked, thin frame. The cold air assaults him as he crawls across the mattress, pushing the expensive sheets aside on his phone hunt. It stops ringing, shrouding the bedroom in silence. Mycroft sits still, hoping whatever had happened was now past.

The ringing starts up again and Greg groans, kicking at Mycroft.

‘Bloody stupid government,’ he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. Mycroft smiles as he shimmies over Greg’s legs, hearing his boyfriend giggle as Mycroft tickles at his skin.

His BlackBerry is beneath Greg’s right leg, which has Mycroft snorting. ‘You could have told me it was there.’

‘Wanna keep you,’ Greg mumbled, squishing his face into the pillow.

Mycroft chuckled as he grabbed his phone and stays sprawled across his boyfriend, the warm body pressing against him nicely.

‘Holmes,’ Mycroft answered.

‘ _Sir_ ,’ it was his assistant... whatever her name was. ‘ _There’s been an incident at the PM’s office. He would like you to come and sort it out._ ’

‘And it can’t wait?’

‘ _No, sir_ ,’ she says, ‘ _reporters are already camped outside Downing Street._ ’

With a sigh, Mycroft runs a hand along Greg’s back, making the older man shiver and moan softly. ‘Very well, give me fifteen minutes.’

‘ _Yes sir._ ’

He scrambled across Greg gracefully and stepped off the bed.

‘No!’ Greg groaned and grabbed at Mycroft’s arm. But he was too tired to really fight and let his boyfriend slip from his hand.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**4:10am**

Mycroft stepped back into his bedroom showered, dressed, and awake. He leaned over the bed to kiss Greg goodbye and found strong arms wrapped around his neck.

‘You are messing up my hair,’ Mycroft complained.

Greg grinned stupidly at him. ‘So?’

‘I have to go to work.’

‘So?’

‘You’re very charming in the morning,’ Mycroft smiles. It was true, though. Even naked, with tussled hair, sleep-caked eyes and pillow imprints on his face, Gregory Lestrade has the ability to look handsome, charming, and oh so sexy.

‘Kiss me.’

Mycroft complied, leaning down to press his lips against Greg’s. He meant it as a soft kiss but Greg had other ideas. He pulled Mycroft closer and forced his tongue into Mycroft’s mouth, making his younger boyfriend groan.

‘Gregory...’ Mycroft whined.

‘You’re very charming in the morning,’ Greg said, giggling.

‘Let me go.’

‘No.’

‘Gregory...’ Mycroft warned.

‘Nope.’

Mycroft reached forward and pressed a strong finger into Greg’s armpit. The man yelped and pulled back, letting Mycroft go.

‘No fair,’ he whined.

Mycroft wondered if Greg acted like this when arresting people. It’d be quite endearing, but utterly useless.

‘I have to go.’

‘Lunch?’

Mycroft paused. ‘I’ll try.’

Greg pouted and leaned up to kiss his boyfriend softly. ‘Miss you.’

‘I’ll miss you too.’ He paused as Greg flipped over to grab the sheets, giving Mycroft a view of his crotch. He swallowed, heat racing up his neck, and saw Greg giving him a coy smile. He’d done it on purpose. ‘You’ll be the death of me.’

‘Good death, though,’ Greg yawned. He wrapped himself in Mycroft’s sheets and curled up on his stomach.

‘I love you, Gregory,’ Mycroft said and kissed his temple.

‘Ruv oo,’ Greg replied, already falling asleep. Mycroft took the words to mean, “ _Love you_ ” and smiled as he stepped from the room.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**4:19am**

Across the living room, into the elevator, down to the lobby, and out the door where a black car was waiting. He stepped in and found he was four minutes late because of Greg’s little act. But he couldn’t hate the man. Nothing was better than kissing Gregory goodbye. Well, kissing Gregory hello, and having dinner, and sex, and every other moment with Gregory was better than saying goodbye to the man. But still...

The car slinked through the early morning traffic. Even at twenty past four on a Sunday morning there was traffic in London.

Mycroft’s business phone vibrated and Mycroft opened it to find a message from Gregory. He wondered how the DI had got his business number as he read the message.

 

_Love you too, you stupid man. And yeah, I have your business number, what of it?_

_Greg_

_x_

 

Mycroft smiled and slid his phone back into his jacket.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**4:50am**

Mycroft stepped from the car and was immediately assaulted by noise. There were reporters everywhere with cameras, microphones, and annoying voices. There was a lot of, ‘How is the PM handling this mess?’, ‘Do you have anything to say about the killing at Charing Cross?’ and the usual, ‘Who are you?’

Mycroft didn’t like reporters. They stuck their noses where they didn’t belong and usually reported the facts wrong. Some of them were noble, though, and that stopped Mycroft from having them all exterminated.

His image was captured on several different cameras but Mycroft wasn’t worried. His men would confiscate them all and delete whatever footage of Mycroft Holmes there was. Almost every reporter had heard some story about him; the mystery guy who appeared during a crisis and disappeared once said crisis was taken care of. His image had never reached the public eye, though, and certainly his name never had.

Mycroft was met by three different security officials and a dozen low level politicians. He breezed through Downing Street like he owned the place (and many people thought Mycroft Holmes _should_ own it) and stepped into the PM’s office.

‘Sir,’ Mycroft said.

‘Holmes, what can you do to fix this mess?’ the Prime Minister asked.

Mycroft took the file that was presented to him and spent ten minutes flicking through it. He then sat before the Prime Minister and crossed his legs, fiddling with his ever present umbrella.

‘I have a plan...’

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**7:00am**

His assistant, whom had decided to be called Anthea again, was in the car when Mycroft left the PM.

‘Sir, there’s a crisis in Russia.’

Mycroft sighed. He hated when there was a crisis in Russia. Normally they involved a long trip and many hours spent arguing in hot offices.

Hoping to avoid that, Mycroft took the phone Anthea had offered him and waited a few seconds.

‘It’s Holmes, tell me the situation.’

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**9:03am**

‘Sir, when was the last time you ate?’ Anthea asked. Her boss had that look on his face; the pale tiredness he got when the stupid genius didn’t eat or sleep for five days.

‘Last night,’ Mycroft informed her, ‘though I’m worried the steak was undercooked.’ He looked pale and slightly clammy but brushed aside her worried look. ‘I am fine. Now, I need to see that file about Dominic Cameron. His actions are worrisome.’

Still looking worried, Anthea handed the file across the car and went back to typing at her BlackBerry, eyeing her boss from the corner of her eye.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**11:00am**

Mycroft vomited into the toilet, groaning as the contents of last night mixed with the blue water. He was going to have that chef tortured and tossed into the Thames. Mycroft felt awful. He was covered in a layer of cold sweat and his hands were shaking.

But he didn’t have time to be sick. He flushed the toilet and went to the sink to wash his mouth out, eyeing himself in the mirror. He wiped sweat from his pale skin and tried to ignore the swirling of his stomach as he went back to work.

Anthea noticed but didn’t say anything, wise considering her boss had been fantasising about killing politicians, reporters, and chefs for the past five hours.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**12:17pm**

Mycroft withdrew his personal mobile when he heard the gunshots. He was sitting in his office and could hear the sounds from his desk. Anthea went into security mode and flipped a switch on the side of the bookcase. Thumps and clicks came from the steel-plated door as Mycroft texted Greg.

 

**Something important has come up, I’m not going to be available for lunch.**

**M**

_­_

Mycroft placed his phone on the desk and wiped sweat from his eyes as Anthea took up a position behind her bigger and skilled boss. The phone beeped as there were shouts from outside.

 

_Anything I need to worry about?_

_Greg_

 

Mycroft thought about that as a saw was started up outside his door. Clearly the men who had infiltrated the building had come well prepared.

 

**Not at the moment. I will let you know. I’m sorry.**

**M**

 

The response came quickly as the door was kicked open.

 

_Stay safe._

_Greg_

 

‘Hands up, Holmes,’ the leader said. There were four of them, wrapped in black with machine guns.

Mycroft complied and behind him Anthea too raised her hands. Neither was very worried; this happened far too often to allow fear to take hold.

‘Can I help you?’ Mycroft asked, ever the polite gentlemen. ‘I’m sure making an appointment would be easier than this.’

‘We want the file on Dominic Cameron,’ the leader said, standing before Mycroft now.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your Mr Cameron,’ Mycroft said.

He received a blow to the face and his head snapped back, hitting the chair. He stifled a groan that had been bubbling in his throat. His cheek thumped and stung, telling Mycroft he’d received a cut from the butt of the gun.

‘The file, Mr Holmes,’ the leader said, calm and collected.

‘Very well,’ Mycroft said, ‘no need to get violent.’ He nodded at Anthea, who stepped behind Mycroft to open the top desk draw.

‘What are you doing?’ the leader demanded.

‘Getting the file,’ Mycroft answered.

The leader raised his gun. ‘No funny business.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Mycroft answered.

Anthea slipped a key into the top draw and pulled it open.

A loud bang erupted in the room and the four men stumbled back. Mycroft, with his back to the draw, didn’t suffer from the blinding flash. He got up gracefully and tripped the leader, a sharp punch to the kidney’s making the man howl. Anthea, having shut her eyes when she opened the draw, was already around the table, ducking a volley of fire.

She took out two men while Mycroft dealt with the fourth, resisting snapping the man’s neck though he very much wanted to. The four men were rendered unconscious in minutes and security finally got its act together. They stepped into the office to find Anthea dabbing at Mycroft’s face with a silk handkerchief and four men tied up on the floor.

‘Mr Holmes, we apologise.’

‘Find out what you can,’ Mycroft said and waved the security guards away.

‘You may need stitches,’ Anthea said.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Are you?’ Anthea asked pointedly. She knew her boss had a habit of ignoring his personal needs, especially those of his body. The man seemed to hate eating and sleeping. It was only recently, since dating Gregory, that he’d started acting like a normal human being.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, another habit picked up from Greg. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You still look pale.’

‘Getting hit in the face tends to do that to a person,’ Mycroft said.

‘You wouldn’t have if you weren’t feeling sick,’ Anthea quipped.

Mycroft chose to ignore her. His stomach was still queasy.

‘Have that chef fired,’ he said.

Anthea smiled.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**1:45pm**

Mycroft had to go to the informant and found himself standing in a cluttered kitchen. The man was jumpy and twitchy, and Mycroft deduced quickly that he hadn’t had a hit of heroin in fourteen hours. The man was clearly gay, eyeing Mycroft’s legs and stomach, lingering far too long on his crotch.

Mycroft cleared his throat. This man had three different STI’s and Mycroft was in a committed relationship. Besides, he didn’t go for men with daddy issues, four different piercings, two tattoos and a fetish for peanut butter.

‘The information, please,’ Mycroft said politely.

The man smiled, showing cracked and yellow teeth.

‘What do I get in return?’

‘I don’t have you killed,’ Mycroft said.

The man had heard far too many death threats to let Mycroft’s words affect him. He stepped closer and Mycroft’s stomach squirmed. He was already feeling under the weather and the man’s body odour was making him feel particularly peaky.

‘I want something in return, Suit.’

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. ‘And that would be?’ He already knew, of course. This man’s leering was anything but subtle.

The man stepped into his personal space and Mycroft resisted the urge to smack him. His superiors really didn’t like it when Mycroft hit their informants.

But then the man went a step too far and grabbed Mycroft around the hips, pushing his crotch into the politician.

‘I want you, Suit.’

Mycroft carried an umbrella for a reason. It was a weapon that went unnoticed. Mycroft whipped it about to smack the man in the side. The man stumbled to the left and Mycroft flipped him around to bring the umbrella to the man’s neck. He pulled it back and the man choked against the expensive fabric.

‘I want that information,’ Mycroft hissed, annoyed that the man was pressing into him. He’d be burning his suit as soon as possible.

‘Yeah, okay!’ the man choked.

‘What was that?’ Mycroft asked, pulling back further.

‘Yes, sir!’ the man squeaked.

Mycroft smiled and let him go. He smoothed down his suit as the man stumbled into his kitchen counter and began shaking.

‘Well?’ Mycroft asked.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**3:00pm**

‘Here you are, sir,’ Anthea said and placed a sandwich on Mycroft’s desk.

‘I’m not hungry.’

He couldn’t stand the thought of eating. His stomach was flipping about like crazy and Mycroft was sure he was going to throw up again.

‘Sir, eating might help.’

‘I can’t,’ Mycroft said and stared at the papers he was signing. His hand was beginning to ache.

Anthea sighed. ‘Very well, sir.’ She wanted to argue but Mycroft was a stubborn man. She flittered away to place important calls as Mycroft pushed the sandwich into his garbage bin.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**6:00pm**

_Watching a movie, sex scenes are making me think of you._

_Greg_

Mycroft smiled at the text. He took a minute to look at his BlackBerry and text his boyfriend.

 

**I’m sorry I’m not there to help, Gregory. Perhaps later we can take care of that problem. But don’t count on anything tonight, I’m stuck at work.**

**M**

 

The reply was swift and long.

 

_Mycroft Holmes, how could you not tell me you have food poisoning? Of all the stupid, idiotic things you’ve done, this tops it. You barely eat as it is and I just know you’ll use this as an excuse to not eat for a week. You march yourself to a vending machine and eat something solid and dry. Also, you see a bloody doctor about that cut now!_

_Greg_

Mycroft stared at his BlackBerry, half annoyed and half proud. Anthea had clearly texted or called Greg to tell him about Mycroft’s vomiting and the incident with the guns. He was annoyed that Anthea went behind his back but also pleased; Anthea had taken it upon herself to inform Greg that her boss was being an idiot. He liked that about her; the ability to throw caution to the wind and do what was needed.

 

**I’m sorry, Gregory, truly I am. But I have work to do and no time to eat. If I did I might end up heaving over a toilet... again.**

**M**

Mycroft signed a few more reports before his phone beeped again.

 

_You’re an idiot. I get that you don’t wanna spend the day hurling but something dry might help. Please take care of yourself, Mycroft. I love you._

_Greg_

Mycroft smiled and texted back.

 

**I love you too.**

**M**

It was a few seconds later that his phone beeped again. Mycroft grabbed it and glanced over the message, smiling.

 

_And don’t fire... whatever her name is. She’s a keeper._

_Greg_

Mycroft chuckled and left his phone on the desk.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**9:24pm**

Tired, sick, and thoroughly annoyed, Mycroft glared at the politician screaming at him. It seemed the man, Dickens, didn’t appreciate Mycroft going behind his back to present a much better plan.

‘Fuck you!’ Dickens shouted. ‘Why do you always do this?’

‘I’m smarter than you,’ Mycroft answered politely. It was the truth. He had no idea how Dickens had come to his position. He was an idiot, a cheater, and an alcoholic to boot.

‘Fuck you!’ Dickens screamed again.

‘Please keep your tongue in check, Mr Dickens,’ Mycroft said, ‘there is a lady present.’

Anthea was in the corner, texting as usual, and was completely ignoring the argument.

‘Behind my fucking back, Holmes!’ Dickens snarled.

‘Yes,’ Mycroft said slowly, ‘I am aware of that.’

Dickens glared. He didn’t like Mycroft; didn’t like how smart, or good-looking, or how observant Mycroft was.

Dickens slammed his hands onto Mycroft’s desk. The man was way too violent and Mycroft knew this would end with somebody getting hurt.

‘Mr Dickens, I must warn you that any violence will result in your immediate and hurtful removal from this office.’

Clearly Dickens didn’t hear the dangerous tone in Mycroft’s voice because suddenly he was around the table and pulling Mycroft from his chair. Mycroft lost a moment as his stomach lurched violently. He was close to throwing up and Dickens got a hit in.

And then he was on the floor, his arm being twisted behind his back by Anthea. Mycroft’s personal assistant wasn’t just a pretty face.

‘Please refrain from touching my boss in the future,’ Anthea said, making Dickens shout in pain as she twisted his arm tighter.

Mycroft’s office door opened and security was once more dragging a body from the room. Anthea smoothed down her jacket and turned to look at Mycroft, who’d fallen back into his seat. He was paler than before.

‘Water,’ he said faintly and Anthea returned a few seconds later. He gulped it down gratefully and groaned.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Fine,’ he grunted.

Anthea snorted. His lip was cut and bleeding and Mycroft took a silk handkerchief from his bottom desk draw. He dabbed at the blood as Anthea said, ‘Sir, perhaps you should go home and–’

His mobile rang and Mycroft slipped it from his jacket pocket. ‘Holmes.’

Anthea sighed.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**10:59pm**

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ Mycroft said, ‘he’s definitely the killer.’

The police officer raised his eyebrows. ‘And how can you tell?’

‘There is ink on his left trouser leg. He brushed past the printer as he stepped over to strangle the victim.’

‘Oh, right,’ the cop said. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Thank you, Mr Holmes. We would have asked your brother to come in but he’s busy on the other side of town.’

‘No trouble, I assure you,’ Mycroft said. While he mostly only entered New Scotland Yard to visit his lover, sometimes the senior police were in dire need of his deductive capabilities.

Mycroft fiddled with his umbrella. His stomach had settled but he still felt off.

‘Gregory isn’t here,’ the Chief said.

‘Yes, of course,’ Mycroft answered. While he and Gregory didn’t hide their relationship, they mostly kept their personal lives personal (except for the odd day spent shagging in their offices). The chief of police had, of course, noticed them spending quality time together.

‘If I may say, sir, you’re looking a little under the weather.’

Mycroft forced a smile across his pale face. ‘I assure you I am completely fine. Now I must be going, Mr Davies.’

Davies nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’ He held out a hand and grasped Mycroft’s clammy one. ‘Take care of yourself, Mr Holmes.’

Mycroft titled his head and exited the office.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**MONDAY**

**12:43am**

_Feeling any better?_

_Greg_

 

Mycroft sighed and leaned back on the seat. The window to his car was open, washing Mycroft’s sweaty face with cool air.

 

**Not really.**

**M**

 

Greg texted back swiftly.

 

_Ooh, honesty, you MUST be sick. Take care of yourself, Myc, and come home soon._

_Greg_

 

Mycroft puzzled over the last three words and tapped at his BlackBerry.

 

**Home?**

**M**

 

He waited ten minutes for Greg’s reply and when he read it his stomach pain was suddenly forgotten.

 

_Yeah, home. I was thinking we could move in together. We’ve been together eight months and I just think... well, you know, moving forward and all that. And I really enjoy waking up in your expensive bed. If you don’t want to I understand._

_Greg_

****

Mycroft smiled broadly and Anthea smiled at his smile. He could barely text through his excitement.

 

**Yes, yes, wonderful idea. I’ll have your stuff moved in as soon as possible.**

**M**

He was practically bouncing with joy and could barely even feel his aching stomach.

 

_Thank God you said yes, I was crapping myself._

_Greg_

Mycroft tutted.

 

**Such foul words, Gregory. Please refrain from speaking like that in the future.**

**M**

The car slid to a halt in front of his office building and Mycroft followed Anthea from the car, feeling cold rain fall lightly on his shoulders.

 

_Shut up. Come home soon. ;-)_

_Greg_

 

Mycroft chuckled and texted back as an urgent file was pressed into his hands.

 

**I will as soon as possible, love.**

**M**

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**1:00am**

‘There’s no need to shout,’ Mycroft drawled as he raised his hands. Why did a simple visit to the manager of a bank always end with Mycroft having a gun shoved into his face? He was starting to dislike banks...

The robber glared at him. ‘Just give me your money!’ The robbers had hit the bank at 1:00am for the simple purpose of avoiding customers. They hadn’t counted on Mycroft visiting with the bank manager, who needed his assistance with a difficult customer. This bank was a good place for Mycroft’s superiors to hold money for certain... actions.

Mycroft smiled and slid a hand into his pocket. He pulled an expensive wallet and peeled out the £500 he was carrying.

‘And the watch.’

Mycroft frowned. The new pocket watch he was sporting had been a birthday present from Gregory three weeks earlier. Mycroft was not about to part with it.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

The robber raised his eyebrows, Mycroft could tell even though the man was wearing a balaclava. ‘What?’

‘No,’ Mycroft said. ‘I think this little robbery should come to an end.’

A flash grenade went off and the other robbers scrambled about blindly. And then a team of Mycroft’s personal body guards swept through the bank lobby and took the men down. Unfortunately, the man standing before Mycroft had had his back turned. He swung an arm around Mycroft’s neck and stuck the barrel of his hand gun into Mycroft’s temple.

‘Move and die,’ he snarled.

Mycroft went silent, eyes taking in the scene before him. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket but didn’t touch it.

‘We’ll be leaving now!’ the man shouted.

Mycroft’s guards all looked at him and Mycroft nodded. This man was just crazy enough to shoot Mycroft, even if it meant his own death. Mycroft raised a hand silently and raised two fingers.

The security detail fell back to allow Mycroft and the robber through. They stepped outside and the man grabbed Mycroft around the waist to pull him sideways. Mycroft still wasn’t feeling well and he unfortunately chose that moment to wince and lean forward.

The sniper across the street had received word of Mycroft’s command (he didn’t raise two fingers for nothing). A bullet _thwacked_ through the air and tore through the muscle in Mycroft’s right arm before burying itself deep into the robber’s stomach. The gun went flying as the robber dropped back. Mycroft tottered on his feet and was immediately grabbed by his security, who bundled him into a car before the reporters could get a picture.

There was shouting and sirens and pressure against Mycroft’s arm. He vomited across the leather seats, hitting a guard’s shoes.

‘Sorry,’ he managed to groan.

‘Not a problem, sir,’ the man said, ever the professional.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**1:25am**

Mycroft sat groaning as his arm was cleaned, bandaged and stitched.

‘You were very lucky,’ the well-paid doctor said. ‘If you’d bent down any further you’d have been hit in the shoulder and the robber would have been okay.’

‘Mm,’ Mycroft managed.

‘You’re awfully pale, sir,’ the doctor said. He had treated Mycroft before but had never learned the politician’s name. He was paid not to ask questions.

‘A little food poisoning,’ Mycroft answered. ‘I’m fine.’

The doctor raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Mycroft remembered that he’d received a text and pulled out his phone.

 

_Robbery in North London. Crazy, huh? Who’d rob a bank at one in the morning? Chief just called me but it was over by the time I got dressed._

_Greg_

Mycroft smiled, knowing Greg would be having a fit if he knew Mycroft had been there. He’d have to tell him, of course, because Greg would see the bullet wound. As a cop he’d know what it was.

 

**Yes, I am aware.**

**M**

He winced as a sharp pain shot through his arm. He glared at the doctor, who just smiled.

 

_Myc, why do I get the feeling you were there?_

_Greg_

 

He could practically hear the worry in Greg’s words. He sighed and texted back.

 

**I’ll explain when I see you.**

**M**

 

The text was short and angry.

 

_You’d better._

_G_

 

Mycroft sighed.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**2:31am**

‘Are you okay, sir?’ Anthea asked. She’d waited in the car during the last-minute meeting and had avoided the danger.

‘Quite alright,’ Mycroft said. The pain killers had eased his temperamental stomach and he was actually feeling much better than he had all day.

‘Sir, a call for you,’ Anthea said and handed across her BlackBerry.

Mycroft took the phone and said, ‘Holmes.’

‘ _Mr Holmes, I have a matter that needs your attention,_ ’ the PM said. ‘ _I tried your phone but it went straight to voice mail._ ’

Mycroft nodded. ‘I apologise, sir. What do you wish to see me about?’

‘ _Can you come by my office? I know it’s late, but I could really use your advice_.’

‘Of course, sir. Not a problem. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

‘ _Thank you._ ’

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**2:33am**

Mycroft checked his business BlackBerry as he stepped into his car. It had died at some point during the robbery and he sighed, annoyed at his mistake.

‘I’ll charge it, sir,’ Anthea said. She was looking tired and worn but was always professional. She took the BlackBerry and leaned over to give it to the driver, who plugged it into the cigarette lighter.

Mycroft sighed. He could use a cigarette.

Suddenly a packet was pressed into his hands along with a lighter. Mycroft smiled at Anthea as he lit one.

‘And not a word to Gregory, sir, I promise,’ Anthea smiled. ‘Though he’ll probably know.’

Mycroft grinned as he blew smoke out the window. ‘What would I do without you, Anthea?’

She smirked. ‘Fall apart completely.’

He chuckled.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**3:12am**

Mycroft groaned as he fell into the car. He’d been up since four am the previous day and had only got a few hours sleep before that. With Gregory Lestrade pressed up against you it’s hard to sleep.

‘Any calls?’ Mycroft asked

‘Four, sir, but nothing I couldn’t handle,’ Anthea said. She tapped at her phone as Mycroft had another cigarette.

‘Four months and I slip,’ he murmured.

Anthea smiled. ‘After your day, sir, I’m not surprised,’ she said.

‘Gregory’s going to hate me.’

‘Wear some deodorant.’

‘He’ll know.’

‘Of course he will, sir.’

Mycroft chuckled.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**3:30am**

Mycroft yawned and brushed his fingers through his hair. Despite being awake almost twenty-four hours he still looked good. It was a small trait he’d always had.

His BlackBerry vibrated and Mycroft looked at the text.

 

_Trouble at the Thames office. Come at once._

_EL_

 

Mycroft groaned and stood, Anthea following him from his office.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**9:54am**

After a very long stand-off between fourteen consultants and sixteen armed men, Mycroft fell back into his office chair. Now there were files to go over, reports to fill out. He checked his personal phone to find a heap of messages from Greg.

 

**_3:54am_ **

_Where the hell are you? I thought you’d be home by now._

_Greg_

**_4:00am_ **

_What happened at the bank?_

_Greg_

**_6:36am_ **

_Mycroft, I’m getting annoyed._

_Greg_

**_7:00am_ **

_I’m going to work. I want to hear from you before I get there._

_Greg_

**_7:54am_ **

_Mycroft, seriously, where are you?_

_Greg_

**_8:01am_ **

_Sherlock set fire to my office._

_Greg_

**_8:22am_ **

_Why aren’t you answering?_

_Greg_

**_8:24am_ **

_MYCROFT!_

_Greg_

**_8:26am_ **

_Stupid son of a..._

_Greg_

**_8:40am_ **

_That’s it, no sex for a month. I’m just worried, Mycroft, please. Let me know you’re safe. You normally message me to let me know you’re not coming home._

_Greg_

**_8:45am_ **

_Okay, I’ve calmed down. No sex for at least two days._

_Greg_

**_8:46am_ **

_Okay, one day._

_Greg_

**_8:56am_ **

_Please, Mycroft, I’m worried. Your assistant said you weren’t feeling well and so did you. Has anything happened?_

_Greg_

**_9:00am_ **

_Man murdered horribly, Sherlock jumping around like its Christmas, and I’m more annoyed at you._

_G_

**_9:10am_ **

_MYCROFT EDWIN BLOODY HOLMES!_

_G_

_-_

Mycroft smiled as Greg’s texts escalated in annoyance. He knew Greg was just worried and found it flattering that a handsome, strong man like Gregory Lestrade would worry about him.

Another message came through before Mycroft could call his boyfriend.

 

_No sex for six weeks if you don’t call me now!_

_GL_

Mycroft knew Greg was really annoyed when he started using his initials. He called quickly.

‘ _Where the hell have you been?_ ’

‘Work, love. I’m sorry I couldn’t call you, there was an incident.’

‘ _Did it have anything to do with the fire fight at the Thames earlier?_ ’

A pause.

‘ _Mycroft Edwin–_ ’

‘Yes, but I’m fine, Gregory.’

Greg knew Mycroft couldn’t give any more information so he was glad for those simple words. ‘ _Are you okay_?’

‘I’m fine,’ Mycroft replied, knowing he’d get the third-degree and evil-eye when Greg saw his face and arm. His face had bruised considerably since the office incidents and the pain killers the doctors had given him for the gunshot wound had worn off. He was beginning to feel very sore and very tired.

‘ _Yeah, right_ ,’ Greg snorted. There was a shout in the background that sounded very much like Sherlock saying, “ _Stop playing with my brother and give me the facts, Lestrade!_ ”

Greg swore at him and said, ‘ _Mycroft, I gotta go. Crime and sociopaths._ ’

Mycroft chuckled. ‘That’s okay, love.’

‘ _When will I see you_?’

‘Soon, hopefully.’

‘ _Yeah, yeah. Make sure you eat something or your assistant will tell me._ ’

‘She’s quite a little gossiper, that one.’

‘ _She’s just looking out for you, Myc._ ’

‘I know.’

‘ _Love you,_ ’ Greg said.

Mycroft smiled. ‘I love you too.’

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**11:00am**

Mycroft groaned, leaning against the toilet. He really had to stop doing this. His stomach had flared up again and now he was mostly throwing up stomach acid. It burned at his throat and made his eyes water.

There was a knock on the bathroom door.

‘Yes?’ Mycroft groaned.

‘ _Sir, are you okay_?’ Anthea knew he wasn’t but felt she had to ask anyway.

‘Fine, fine,’ Mycroft murmured. He flushed the toilet and washed his mouth out with water. He groaned and rubbed at his face.

Mycroft opened the bathroom door and came face to face with Anthea. ‘Sir–’

‘I’m fine,’ he murmured. He clearly wasn’t. He hadn’t slept in two days, he was suffering from food poisoning, his arm hurt, his face hurt, he missed his boyfriend, work was hard... he sighed and fell into his office chair.

‘Sir, seriously, you look awful,’ Anthea said and placed a stack of papers on his desk.

‘I’m fine,’ he murmured.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**3:12pm**

Mycroft breezed through the hospital, ignoring the nurses and doctors who tried to stop him. He already knew where to find his brother and left Anthea to deal with everybody he annoyed.

The private room Mycroft had paid handsomely for was big and full of noise. There was beeping machines, a doctor arguing, another doctor sighing, and a genius sociopath annoying everyone.

Mycroft stopped short of the bed and leaned against his umbrella. ‘Sherlock, why do I only see you when you are injured?’ He paused and looked his brother over.

Sherlock was sitting up in the bed wearing a hospital gown. He had a tube in his arm and was scowling, his right shoulder heavily bandaged. John Watson was standing beside him, wide-eyed and pale. Another doctor, also handsomely paid by Mycroft, was trying to calm Sherlock down.

‘Brother,’ Sherlock sneered. ‘I guess I can thank you for this room.’

Mycroft smiled, knowing Sherlock hated when Mycroft paid for his things. ‘You are most welcome, brother.’

‘Lestrade’s not here,’ Sherlock continued, ‘he’s busy interrogating the man who shot me. You should hope you see him before I do.’

Mycroft raised a well-groomed eyebrow. ‘Oh? And why is that?’

‘Well, he’s been worried about you all day, something about a bank and the shoot-out near the Thames,’ Sherlock said, smiling. ‘Judging by the way you’re standing, and the paleness and slight shake in your hands, you haven’t eaten properly in two days or slept for that fact. You’re sporting two separate facial bruises from two separate attacks a few hours apart. Also, you’ve been shot in the right arm. Oh, and you have food poisoning from a bad steak.’

Mycroft scowled and John glanced at him.

‘Yes, I thought so,’ Sherlock smiled. ‘Imagine Gregory’s anger if he finds all that out from me and not you?’

Mycroft licked his lips. ‘Sherlock, it would do you well to keep that information to yourself.’

Sherlock poked out his bottom lip. ‘Are you going to ground me?’

‘Sherlock, come on,’ John said. He looked tired and Mycroft knew why; while Sherlock had been getting shot at, and actually shot, John had been chasing the main suspect up ten flights of stairs. While John Watson was a fit man, he was close to forty-years-old and didn’t sleep or eat properly, what with running about after Sherlock Holmes.

‘Dr Watson, I must thank you for administering first aid to my brother,’ Mycroft said. ‘You have my deepest thanks.’

John smiled tiredly. ‘No worries.’

Sherlock glared at them both and folded his arms.

Mycroft smiled and said, ‘I must be going, Sherlock.’ He could feel his business phone vibrating in his pocket. ‘Please do try and keep safe, brother.’

‘Don’t start any wars, Mycroft!’ Sherlock snapped back.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**3:51pm**

Mycroft puffed on a cigarette, glancing over his shoulder every few minutes. He’d peeled open the window in his office and was enjoying a short break. He hadn’t had one since the previous morning.

There was a knock on his office door and Mycroft cursed. He flicked the cigarette out the window and went to open the door.

‘Sir, there’s been an incident at the hospital,’ Anthea informed him, ignoring the tobacco smell lingering about the office. ‘Your brother was attacked by the brother of a patient for, and I quote, “ _fucking annoying comments_ ”. Dr Watson knocked the man out and the man threatened to press charges when he woke up. DI Lestrade has convinced the man not to.’

Mycroft smiled and pulled out his personal phone as Anthea placed another heap of files on his desk. Mycroft sat to sign them.

**Thank you for taking care of that incident with my brother. I really do love you.**

**M**

 

Mycroft read and signed several documents before he received a message.

 

_We’re going to have a long talk when you finally get home._

_GL_

Mycroft sighed. Clearly Sherlock had told Greg about Mycroft’s injuries. He groaned, not looking forward to that talk.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**6:00pm**

‘Sir, you should eat something.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**7:00pm**

‘Sir, you look very pale.’

‘I am fine, Anthea.’

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**8:44pm**

‘...Sir?’

No response.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**10:10pm**

Mycroft sat back as the meeting was adjourned. Everybody was leaving the conference room but Mycroft didn’t have the energy. Anthea waited until the room was clear before helping her boss up.

‘You are ridiculous, sir.’

He didn’t answer as Anthea dragged him from the room and into his office. She made a strong cup of coffee and forced him to drink it before practically stuffing dry biscuits down his throat.

‘Better?’ Anthea asked.

He nodded mutely.

‘You’re an idiot.’

‘I know.’

‘Gregory is going to kill you, sir.’

‘Yes, I am aware.’

Anthea smiled. ‘Maybe you should go home, sir. I know that meeting was an emergency but there are others who can deal with–’

Mycroft’s phone buzzed and he sighed, Anthea frowned.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**TUESDAY**

**12:18am**

_Mycroft, seriously, where are you? Are you still at work or are you out of the country? Normally you call when you’re leaving Britain... Mycroft, just let me know you’re okay._

_Gregory_

Mycroft sighed and massaged his eyes. What had started as a normal day (Mycroft Holmes considered being called by the Prime Minister _normal_ ) had turned into nearly forty-eight full hours of no sleep, no food, and bodily harm.

It had been ages since Mycroft had felt this exhausted. He missed his boyfriend, he missed his bed, and he was sick of feeling queasy and achy. He just wanted to go home.

 

**Sorry, I’ve been busy, haven’t had time to call. Forgive me?**

**M**

The response was barely readable. Mycroft had been yawning for the best part of an hour and his eyes had watered up.

 

_God, you must be exhausted, your message isn’t as sophisticated as normal. Mycroft, come home and come to bed. Please, you work too hard._

_Greg_

**I want to.**

**M**

Mycroft yawned again and leaned back in his seat. He had a dozen reports to fill out about the PM’s latest blunder and there was an emergency meeting in half an hour that he really had to go to.

Anthea herself was exhausted but hadn’t been smashed in the face by a gun or a fist and as of yet she hadn’t been shot. She also wasn’t suffering from food poisoning and had actually eaten in the past 24 hours. She didn’t count four biscuits and a cup of coffee as food.

While Mycroft scratched away at the papers, Anthea stepped out and made a call.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**3:29am**

Mycroft yawned and nearly nodded off. He shook himself awake as the meeting drew to a close. He got a few looks from other politicians. Clearly they’d slept in the past two days and Mycroft hated every one of them. While he wasn’t the only politician who had been up for far too long, he _was_ the only one sporting body injuries. It seemed Mycroft Holmes was always the government official getting hurt.

‘Sir!’ Anthea sighed as he stumbled into her and nearly fell.

‘’M’right,’ he murmured.

‘No, you’re not,’ Anthea sighed.

Suddenly one of Mycroft’s superiors appeared before them.

‘Sir,’ Mycroft sighed, trying very hard not to fall.

‘Get going, Holmes. You look like you could use the rest.’

Mycroft blinked. ‘No, sir, I am quite fine.’

Anthea had to prop him up when he swayed on his feet.

‘You’ve had a difficult two days, Holmes, and you’re human. Go home and get some rest.’

Mycroft couldn’t argue anymore. He allowed Anthea to lead him back to his office where she grabbed his coat before taking him to his car.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**3:55am**

The driver had to help Mycroft up to his flat. There he just sat on the couch, too tired to move.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**4:00am**

‘How long have you been home?’ Greg asked, sliding to sit beside Mycroft.

‘Dunno,’ he answered.

‘You look exhausted.’

‘Mm.’

Greg helped Mycroft up and took him to bed.

 

 

{oOo}

 

 

**4:30am**

‘Why aren’t you sleeping?’

‘Can’t.’

‘Mycroft, you’ve been up two days straight. You need to rest.’

It was true and Mycroft was exhausted. But he just couldn’t fall asleep. Every time he came close he was jolted back awake.

‘I don’t know, I’m sorry,’ Mycroft yawned.

Greg sighed and climbed atop Mycroft to straddle his hips. ‘You were shot.’

Mycroft stared at him.

‘Myc?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

Mycroft sat up and allowed Gregory to remove his jacket, waistcoat and shirt. The bandages were stained red and Greg sighed.

‘And your face,’ he murmured, running a finger lightly along the cut on Mycroft’s cheek. He leaned forward and kissed his lips softly.

‘I’m sorry,’ Mycroft said.

‘It’s not your fault.’

‘I’m still sorry.’

Greg sighed and leaned his forehead against Mycroft’s, shifting so he could reach. ‘I know.’ He squirmed again and stopped when he felt something poke at him. He grinned. ‘You’re exhausted, huh?’

Mycroft smiled. ‘I can’t help it, Gregory. I have a sexy man straddling me, how do you expect me to react?’

‘You should be sleeping.’

‘I know.’ Mycroft leaned up to kiss Greg, wincing slightly as Greg sucked at his broken lip.

‘Sorry,’ Greg said, running his hands through Mycroft’s hair.

‘S’alright,’ Mycroft answered, gripping Greg’s arms tightly.

For an exhausted man he suddenly had a lot of energy. Greg chuckled as Mycroft began undressing him. ‘We’re still talking tomorrow, mister.’

‘Mm hmm,’ Mycroft mumbled against his lips.

Greg pushed him down and moved to pull his and Mycroft’s clothes off. He grabbed the lube from the dresser draw and got himself ready.

‘Are you sure you still want to move in?’ Mycroft asked as Greg climbed back on the bed.

‘Yep,’ Greg said, ‘that way I can keep track of you.’

Mycroft chuckled and then gasped as Greg suddenly pushed into him. He moaned softly and gripped his own legs.

‘No romance?’ Mycroft asked.

‘You need to be fucked into sleep,’ Greg smiled coyly.

Mycroft smiled. He pulled a pillow under his head as Greg pulled Mycroft’s legs over his shoulders. Mycroft groaned softly and shut his eyes as Greg began thrusting slowly, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...

Mycroft felt his body relax and his brain shut down as Greg hit his prostate, forcing the younger man to groan louder.

Greg was moving faster now, apparently just wanting Mycroft to climax so he could relax and get some sleep. He grunted and grabbed Mycroft’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.

‘G-g...’

Mycroft couldn’t form a coherent word. He was hyper aware of his body and what Greg’s cock was doing to it. Gone was the stress and tiredness, gone was the hunger and pain. There was only him and Greg, right here right now.

‘F-fuck,’ Greg grunted and pushed harder, penetrating Mycroft as hard as he could. Mycroft grunted in response and wrapped his own hands around Greg’s, stroking his cock with his boyfriend.

He was so close... so close...

Mycroft’s body constricted and tightened as he came, blowing his load all over himself. Greg came with him and they both shuddered and gasped, sweating and panting on each other. Greg pulled out and stumbled to get a towel. Mycroft just lay there, utterly drained and completely fucked.

Greg cleaned them both up and fell onto the bed to snuggle into Mycroft. Mycroft was too exhausted to move. Greg wrapped the duvet around them as he kissed Mycroft softly.

‘Talk tomorrow.’

‘Mm,’ Mycroft mumbled, not even moving his lips.

Greg’s phone rang and he groaned. Mycroft didn’t move as Greg scrambled over him to grab it.

‘Lestrade’ he murmured. ‘Yeah, ’kay, I’ll be right there.’

Mycroft managed to stay awake just long enough to see Greg off. It was five minutes later that he felt warm lips against his own.

‘I gotta go, love.’

‘Mm,’ Mycroft mumbled.

‘You get some sleep, ’right?’

‘I will,’ he said.

Gregory kissed him again. ‘I love you, Mycroft.’

‘Ruv oo,’ Mycroft murmured. Greg took that to mean, “ _Love you_ ” and smiled as he stepped from the room. He heard Mycroft’s soft snoring as he closed the door.

 

 

{THE END}

 

 


End file.
